


On the Star Destroyer Venus

by Eisenschrott



Series: The Saucy Executor [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle of Hoth, in a bar on the Executor, a toast to victory between high-ranking officers has quickly escalating consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rum

It was well past midnight when General Veers marched into an officers’ lounge, boots thumping in the dimly lit hall and a blaster wound itching under the bacta patch and the clean uniform.

You could never call one of such places empty—off-duty officers haunted the tables at every hour round the clock—but by the Lady Ex’s standards it qualified as empty. The olive- and black-uniformed semi-sentient creatures sitting at the margins of Veers’ field of vision acknowledged him with trembling-handed salutes that rank allowed him not to respond to.

He went for the counter. A single figure sat slouched with his face in his hands, a steaming thermomug beside him. Last thing Veers wished to have anything to do with were sad drunks, but the bartender droid was near him, bent over as if in a polite bow, when Veers approached. He caught the droid’s courteous mechanical prattling, “…perhaps a shot of Rodian whiskey in your tea, Admiral?”

Veers froze in midstride, now close enough to the man he could’ve whacked his neck broken like Ozzel had always deserved—but he didn’t have an inch of Ozzel’s build and posture.

“Just scram, Fourdee,” muttered the _admiral_ in a pain-stricken tone.

Ah, right. Piett. Another field promotion. They’d told him about that while Blizzard Force was being ferried to the surface of the planet; the carrier’s captain said Lord Vader hadn’t even taken the trouble to walk up to the bridge. _Just choked the bastard over the video comm. So it goes. Piett is next on the block_.

The droid turned and said, “Good evening, General. What can I do for you?”

Piett sat up straight in a motion that resembled a cringe. Their eyes met, and the newly minted admiral’s said he was expecting bad news from the general’s presence. Fresh bad news.

“Grog,” said Veers. “Ithorian rum and Chandrilan black sugar. Two glasses.”

“At once, sir.”

While the droid typed into the retriever and stretched its servo-arms to grab tumblers from a shelf, Veers sat on the stool next to Piett.

“Signature navy booze,” the latter tried hard to breathe amusement into the sentence, but the deep lines on his face ruined everything. “I thought you had better taste, General.”

“Taste? A grunt of the dirt forces?” Veers laughed. “Not really a matter of that, _sir_.”

At that little word, Piett narrowed his eyes.

“I stick to clean living, most of the times. But I’m late with the congratulations, so—"

“Think nothing of it.” Piett picked up the mug and rolled it between his palms. “I merely stepped up on the ladder when… when the rung became vacant.”

Not hard to imagine the ladder led up to an old-style gallows with rope and noose awaiting at the top.

“You instead, with your great success on Hoth,” went on the admiral, “if there is someone here who deserves accolades, that would be you.”

Veers snorted softly. Granted, compliments were a welcome progress from Ozzel’s management—the old man’s trumpets played fanfares only in his own honour, while Lord Vader’s rather fell on the cryptic monosyllabic side—and Piett sounded sincere. But praise no matter how wholehearted didn’t bring the fallen soldiers back to life. “Flattering, sir,” he said, with a few grams of the planet’s ice in his voice. “I just did my duty.”

Two full tumblers chinked in front of them on the counter. Not a moment too soon.

Piett looked at his glass, then the mug, and grabbed the tumbler between forefinger and thumb. For some reason, Veers’ brain took notice that he wasn’t wearing gloves—first time he ever saw him without gloves, in fact—and of how pale his hands were; bulging blueish veins and bitten nails.

“To victory and to the Empire.” Veers raised his glass. “And to Death Squadron’s new admiral.”

The glasses clinked. Piett said nothing; but while Veers broke contact with the bittersweet liquid explosive in his tumbler after a single quick swallow, lips pursed and throat aflame, he threw his head back and downed the stuff at once. His hand trembled as he put the glass back down, then knocked it on the counter to signal the ‘tender droid for a refill.

 _Can’t let a navy bugger win_. Veers poured the grog down his throat, so as not to feel the taste. Still, his eyes filled with tears and he had to clench his teeth and hold his breath while the deflagration swept over his stomach.

“Are you determined to keep me company, General?”

“If—” Veers coughed behind his fist. “If you don’t mind.”

“Fourdee, another round for the general, too. I’m buying.”

Veers regarded, with the growing weight of dread in his chest, the gold and brownish spirits mixing in the clean tumbler. “How many rounds are customary for celebration?”

“Do as the army does. I, personally, am just drowning my worries.”

“They learn to swim faster in tea than in this poison, don’t they?”

Piett was silent for an instant. “All too true,” he said unsmilingly.

Not that he was to blame; the joke was awful and those who hid fear by being boisterous were not Veers’ favourite type of people at all. But he didn’t like the tremor in the admiral’s clenched fists and the fixed, distant light in his eyes.

The ‘tender droid served them the full glasses. With one grim look at the sugar grains floating on the grog, he considered the all-in-one-gulp way was the least life-threatening option. Blasted naval traditions.

This time, Piett’s glass and his thumped on the counter simultaneously. The general and the admiral exchanged a look, a mutual sizing—from his position, Veers could’ve reached out and grabbed him into five different chokeholds; the muscles in his arms stiffened.

Then the wound stung, a few centimetres above his right hip, the pain stoked by… damn, he had leaned forward, just a bit, preparing to leap at the opponent.

Well, let the navy bloke win this round, too. He would lose big against the chain of command anyway, on the long run. Maybe not _that_ long a run, considering whom the admiral took orders from. Maybe on the _short_ run, judging by the tired face and the booze.

Veers sat back up and forced out a soft laughter. “How am I faring with this?” He tapped his forefinger on the edge of his glass.

“I was just thinking you were holding it well for an army officer.” That ghostly smirk again, at the left corner of Piett’s mouth. “Then you giggled.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d find it endearing, if only this bar weren’t on a warship, and if I were making a conscious effort to pick you up.” Piett shrugged, managing to seem even smaller than he was, and incidentally a living proof of the ancient military wisdom: _appear weak when you’re strong and appear strong when you’re weak_. “I suggest I buy you another round, General. So that everything I just said will be washed away in alcohol by the next day cycle.”

Veers planted his right arm across the counter and clenched his fist.

“They don’t train you for navy drinks. It’s not your fault. If you don’t want…”

“Go on, try me.”

He cracked a proper smile this time, tight-lipped and brief as it was. “Fourdee, another round.”

“Are you married, Admiral?” asked Veers.

Piett shot him a wide-eyed look.

“Any significant other at all?”

He kept staring.

“Figures as much. And let me assure you, you’re not going to make progress if _this_ is your dating skill level.”

“And—and what would that be, exactly? Do you have a scale?”

Suddenly at a loss for words, Veers made a vague waving gesture at the hall. “Bar on a warship, treating an army man to navy drinks.”

“I don’t recall saying anything on army men and navy drinks in _that_ sense.”

Veers grimaced. He wasn’t too sure about what they had been talking about since the first glass, come think of it. “I’m plastered already. What do they even put in that stuff?”

“What you told the ‘tender to put. The strongest grog ingredients known in the galaxy that aren’t toxic to humans.” Piett cast a glance at his fresh new full glass. “Not toxic to the point of causing immediate death, at least. Who taught you the recipe?”

“One SecNav cadet who was being shown the ropes at Raithal for a semester. Tried to drink me under the table after I beat her at arm-wrestling.”

“Did she succeed?” said Piett, and then put his glass to his lips. His hand was still shaking slightly.

“She called it ‘the Sarlacc Spit’. I maintain it’s a terrible pun.” In a motion as fast and fluid as a Teräs Käsi combo strike, Veers took hold of his tumbler, threw back his head and poured down the stuff.

He’d taken the precaution of closing his eyes as he drank, but he felt something off in his balance, opened them, and saw the ceiling spin. He clutched the edge of the counter, his wound bumped against it, but the pain took a long time worming its way up to his brain. The room around him, the whole damned Super Star Destroyer, was doing a barrel roll. Artificial gravity was so state-of-the-art that nothing seemed to be falling off, though. His body felt light, much lighter than it should on standard-g, and he wasn’t sure the stool he’d been sitting on was beneath him...

“Watch out!”

He was grabbed by the front of his tunic. By reflex, his right hand darted up to parry and break the hold, but it was just Piett’s arm and he froze, just squeezing the crook of his elbow. The grip on that fistful of Veers’ uniform tightened.

“Sorry. You were swaying. I was afraid you’d fall.”

As the admiral spoke, Veers felt his breath on his face, heavy with the scathing smack of rum; the stuff that weighed inside Veers’ stomach stirred in sympathy. So up close, he also saw the bright red colour on Piett’s sunken cheeks.

A moment later, Piett closed his eyes and threw himself into Veers’ arms.

It was sheer reflex that made Veers catch him. He couldn’t feel if he was holding his tumbler, between his hands entwined somewhere behind Piett’s back—he lifted them over his shoulders, found them empty. While Veers did this bit of scouting, Piett sagged towards the floor with a grunt.

“Ah, is this all that you meant?”

The grunt took a questioning pitch.

Veers easily hoisted the smaller, lighter man up, and sat him across his lap. Piett’s head rested on his shoulder and that warm grog-laden shaky breath now tickled his jawline. Gooseflesh there, and a warm twinge between his legs. Blast whoever had designed such low collars on officers’ uniforms.

“Son of a Hutt.” Piett’s voice had dropped of two octaves and the sugar grains must have coalesced into gravel in his throat, rattling against each other, and his lips brushed Veers’ neck.

He swallowed hard. “It—it’s not my fault I hadn’t anyone your size sit right where you are now since my wife…”

Piett didn’t press him to finish the sentence.

After what must have been several seconds of silent stillness, the low gravelly voice wafted again into Veers’ ear, “I’m too old for drinking this heavy. Could—could you take me back to my quarters?”

“I’ll call someone.”

“Don’t. Please.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, I told you I’m drunk. No great start for your command to be caught limping down a corridor arm-in-arm with a general who’s just as legless as you.”

Either Piett shuddered, or held back a belch. Felt more like a shudder, though. “I’ve got a better textbook definition for _no great start for my command_ : ramming my fleet through an asteroid field. And there’s the minor issue of said command, along with my life, reaching a quick end—are you finishing that?”

Veers watched him snatch the glass— _my drink!_ —but his hand reacted too slowly; when he got so far as to touch the counter, Piett was already putting the empty tumbler back down. Toppled over on its side. It began idly rolling on the surface of the counter towards the edge, but the ‘tender’s spider-like fingers caught it.

Wait, shouldn’t it have been empty in the first place? Veers could have sworn he was getting the gist of surviving navy drinks, and had accordingly gobbled up all the poison at once. Well, shit. Time for tactical retreat.

“Can you stand, Admiral?” he asked.

“If I can, then I need another round.”

The thought of another round made Veers shiver. “Fine. Don’t complain if I drop you.”

He probed the floor with the tips of his boots, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled himself to his feet while lifting Piett in his arms—left under the admiral’s legs, right under his shoulders. By instinct, Piett held tight onto him, an arm snaking behind Veers’ neck. It could only be instinct. Just like the sensation of fingers brushing through his hair could only be a trick of intoxication.

Beyond his shut eyelids, he felt the ship spin again. For an instant, just like that critical point in battle when the scales tip and the winner gets the upper hand, he feared the lurch in his stomach, the tremor in his knees, the overheated durasteel grip that had somehow replaced the cloth cap on his head, would knock him down flat.

The spinning decelerated. He was still standing. He cracked his eyes open and tried a careful step forwards, then another. Piett was a featherweight, and very still—asleep probably. They made it to the sliding door without incidents. The corridor ahead was empty, but the light was pre-set at perennial day cycle and, after the shadowy interior of the lounge, it made Veers’ eyes water. Everything faded to a blur of grey and white. But he knew where the turbolift shafts were, knew approximately how many steps it would take him to get there. So he walked blind, counting in his mind. His sight cleared just in time to avert a frontal collision against the turbolift door. A hand that wasn’t his punched in a code on the keypad.

“Weren’t you out cold?”

“I tried to pass out, but your staggering kept me awake.”

“Would you rather crawl your way to bed, sir?”

“Barmpot.”

“ _You_ asked for a ride.” He hadn’t meant to speak so loudly. “And I told you not to complain if it’s rough. I damn well warned you.” He also hadn’t meant for that frosty edge to line his voice, the kind that never failed to terrify a subordinate who’d made a cock-up and, on attention but wishing they could curl up under the nearest control panel, steadied themselves for the reprimand. “So now you will clam up and let me do my bit of legwork at my own pace. Make no mistake,” the lift door slid open and he strode inside, “ _we_ are better at legwork than you navy toffs are.”

The pitch of the cubicle starting up made him hobble forward and hit the wall.

Pressed between Veers and durasteel, Piett groaned and eased himself on his feet; his arms, though, remained locked behind Veers’ neck, forcing the general to lean over.

“If you weren’t fresh off the ground attack,” he murmured, “I would laugh.”

Veers blinked and squinted until the other man’s face came into focus. The smirk was set and still, baring a bit of teeth. Not a laughter held back, no—amusement, yes, but beyond that, in the half-shut yet alert eyes, a question shimmered. The sort everyone who’s spent years in deep space, or in a military boarding school or both things, learns to read without need for words.

It said, _Yes?_

Blasted naval traditions. First rum, now sodomy.

Veers ran a gloved thumb over Piett’s lips, wiping off a tiny crust of dried up sugar. The admiral let out a throaty breath and closed his eyes, and in this moment the diversion allowed him, Veers bent his head and pressed his mouth to Piett’s.

The first attack met no resistance—tore a breach in the deflector shield, if it even had been up at all. Veers went in with his tongue, and had to wonder, was it intentional that the black sugar and the rum tasted so sweet and mildly spicy inside someone else’s mouth? Just designed so that you’d have to kiss someone to appreciate the taste? There must be more than one reason why that was the navy’s favourite drink…

A touch slid along his collarbone and lingered on his shoulder blade, where his uniform tunic was buttoned up. His own hands sprang back to life, clutched Piett by the small of his back and pulled him closer, then burrowed down.

With a wince and a gasp, Piett broke off the kiss.

Well, damn an infantry officer to the nine hells if he doesn’t press on a successful assault. Veers hauled Piett’s left leg up to his hip and in-between ragged breaths asked, “What—what’s wrong?”

“The lift is about to stop.”

Veers glanced at the door and saw it closed and the red light above the keypad. A hot rush of anger got to his head, and he seized Piett by his collar. Apart from grabbing his wrists, Piett didn’t try to defend himself.

“You got me into this,” said Veers, “and now you make up excuses?”

The lift slowed for a split second, then halted. A chime came from the keypad, and the door slid open to reveal a lieutenant and a pair of stormtroopers behind her.

The lieutenant gaped. She was army, and a familiar face—Veers almost called her name while his brain scampered for an explanation, but Piett beat him to that, in a much more slurred voice than when they were at the bar, “I told you to put me down, you ground-thumping berk—I can bloody walk, I swear…” He faked a hiccup fit.

Veers growled, yanked Piett’s arm over his shoulders and dragged him out of the cubicle. The lieutenant and the stormtroopers had backed a few paces away. They saluted, dived into the turbolift and were mercifully gone.

If it weren’t for the damned spinning and the zigzag route his feet insisted on following, Veers could have called himself sobered up. He was painfully aware the flap of his tunic was dangling on his chest, literally _painfully_ aware the wound stung, and his crotch hurt like it had taken a kick so sharp it’d shoved the meat-and-two-vegs all in the wrong places. His cheeks burned, and should the blasted toff who was sighing in relief in his ear even _think_ of commenting on his blush…

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“What?”

Piett waved his free hand at the T-junction where Veers had taken the rightwards corridor. “Left, not right. Admiral’s quarters. They’re furnished with a double bed.”

“With all the trouble you’ve given me, I should bang you over a plunk droid.” Veers glared at the power droid plodding along the wall, onto which he’d just come within millimetres from bumping.

“Oh. Are a general’s quarters that bad?”

A slight twist and a well-timed tug, Veers considered, and he could break the other man’s arm. Or, he could bend his knees and throw him over his head.

“What are you smiling at?” asked Piett, in a worried tone.

“Nothing.” In doubt, Veers opened and closed his fist that held Piett by the wrist. A pang shot through his flexing fingers, as if he’d been scrunching them too tightly.

“Well, surveillance cameras can see we’re going in the wrong way, and they can see it’s not _I_ escorting a drunken _you_ to your quarters.” A pause, that Veers did not use to reply if it was meant for that. “If anyone asks, I was so pissed I couldn’t remember where my cabin is, and you were so kind as to let me crash on your couch.”

“The infantry doesn’t do couches, Admiral.”

Piett snorted. “Should I expect the rear seat of an AT-AT?”

“I’ll arrange that, if you can keep your trousers on until maintenance crew’s done scrubbing off the blaster burns.”

“Can _you_?”

Veers yelped as a hand reached between his legs and squeezed. He trampled on his own feet, but by some training-built miracle he managed not to trip, fall, and squeal farewell to his leftover dignity.

“Hm. Sounds about right they call you ‘Iron Max’.”

The galaxy was feeling generous; Veers spotted the door to his quarters and lunged for the keypad. He keyed the passcode, and the door didn’t open.

For a moment he just stood staring at the keypad and the little red light over the terminal. He tried again, very slowly, one number at a time. Still locked.

“Are you sure—”

“Hold it one more damned sec, vac-head.” Veers pulled a code cylinder from the breast pocket of his uniform and stuck it into the terminal. Of fucking course the lock found it had the advanced clearance codes for all the officers’ quarters; the little light went green and the door opened.

The ceiling lights turned on automatically, to show in the most unmistakable terms this wasn’t Veers’ room. Pieces of a naval uniform and a stormtrooper armour, and among them a pair of briefs and a bra, lay scattered on the floor all the way up to the bed, where a man and a woman lay snoring and hugged to each other, the blanket balled up in a crumple around their ankles. Neither made so much as a start or a quickened breath in the sudden light.

Veers wrenched the cylinder out of the terminal. The door closed again.

“Lieutenant Commander Ardan,” said Piett. “That’s news to me.”

“This is all your fault,” Veers blurted out before taking in the slit-eyed, tight-lipped expression the admiral was watching the closed door with. Calculating, awake. The general’s brain kick-started itself in turn: an officer and a trooper sleeping together could mean many things—many unsavoury things, beyond the simple disrespect for the hierarchy…

But whatever conclusion the admiral reached, it ended in a shrug. “I seem to remember your cabin is four doors down.”

It was. The door complied at the first try. The interior bore the trademark tidiness that basic training had long ago hammered into Veers’ habits—bed made, as few personal items in view as possible, drawers and lockers and ‘fresher door closed, a change of uniform and underwear ready on the shelf at the foot of the bed, with a polished pair of boots on the floor.

“It’s almost like you do surprise inspections on your own room,” said Piett.

Half a heartbeat later, Veers slammed him against the closed door, lifted him off from under both legs, and pressed all his weight on him, and then pressed harder when he heard him cough and wheeze. He bit his earlobe and felt him flinch to attention, and himself break into a grin. “I can make an awful mess of a place if I want to—as the Rebels have learnt on Hoth the hard way. Mind trying that on your own sorry arse?”

Nails dug into his back through the uniform.

“Stars, yes.” And Piett resumed the kiss where he had interrupted it.


	2. Sodomy

Not that Piett had expected subtlety from an army general with a galaxy-renown predilection for the heavy armoured assault divisions. It wasn’t what blokes like Veers were taught at the academy, nor what the fates unleashed them upon the universe for.

Biting, however, was sheer overkill. Veers did it hard enough that, in the wet jumble of tongues and sharp teeth, Piett tasted blood. He turned his head, cheek to cold durasteel, but there was no way to break contact.

It ended all of a sudden, first heat and mingling breaths, then the cool air with its dusty scent of ventilation pipes. Piett sucked it in with quick, strained breaths, and grasped onto Veers’ back as support vanished from under his legs and his feet thumped on the floor.

“Get in bed, undress. I’ll be back in a moment,” Veers said huskily, landed a surface kiss on his lips, and stalked off to the ‘fresher. He closed the door behind him, and a moment later came a slosh of water in the sink.

Was that a retreat? Would he come out with a stern face, part of the uniform as much as the rest, and request him to leave, or worse maybe, to believe the lie and get in bed for a chaste night of sleep? Veers would suit himself on the floor, of course. The army doesn’t do couches. Piett rubbed his palm over his mouth and winced at the burning pangs. It made him smile to himself. No time for playing the skinny awkward new boy in the classroom anymore.

He tottered to the bed, flopped on the edge, and set about pulling his boots off with arms that alcohol had turned into matter barely more solid than mess hall porridge. By the time he’d managed it, his tunic was dark with perspiration under the armpits; he was glad to get rid of it, and his cap, shirt and trousers, though the pleasure was spoiled by having to fold them all and put them on the shelf next to Veers’ change of uniform, rather than throw the blasted things on the floor and be done. Admirals, unfortunately, don’t do creased uniforms.

Veers emerged from the ‘fresher carrying his clothes in one hand, the boots in the other. There were two types of Humans in the known universe, as far as Piett was concerned: those who looked stronger-built in a uniform, and those who did without it. Damn nice set of shoulders and arms, with not half of the scars he was expecting. The only let-down was that he’d kept his trousers on. Piett whistled, and locking eyes with Veers he could tell the other man was not disappointed in him either—or, more likely, too aroused to get finicky over preferred body types or anything that stood in his way to the bed, for he knocked his leg against the shelf and hissed a curse that would have ranked as vile even by naval standards.

“Shit, I give up.” Veers dumped boots and uniform and climbed over the edge of the bed on all fours. “Lie down. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Piett complied, spreading his legs. The mattress was thicker and less creaky than those issued to navy captains’ quarters, a tiny part of his brain remarked, sour with a years-long envy that hadn’t realised he was no captain any longer. Then Veers was over him, blocking the ceiling light; he must have thought out the attack vector beforehand, and down he went to nibble at Piett’s neck and, from there, to slither along his breastbone.

Breathing now carried a moan at every exhalation, each louder than the previous. He tried to reach out and wrap his arms around Veers, but found them clamped down and pinned to the mattress. “Max—”

“That’s _general_ for you, sailor.”

“Yes—yes, sir.” He closed his eyes to keep himself from rolling them. Well, the ground-pounder was the hero of the day, so better leave him celebrate how he liked it best.

“Listen up. I am going to let go of your hands. You will not make a move.” His voice was harsh, but now and then it cracked—he too had to swallow gasps. It made Piett smile. A grip of steel seized his jaw. “Listen up, I said! See this parting gift the Rebel scum gave me before my men gunned down their snipers?” Veers pointed at a bacta patch taped to his waist.

Piett mouthed a cuss. The patch was twice as large as the palm of his hand, and the _gift_ underneath must have come bloody close to turning Veers’ kidney into black pudding.

“Yes, it still hurts,” went on Veers, “especially since I had to carry you. So, if you so much as lay a finger on it, I’m damn going to lose what little self-control I have left. You’re clever enough to figure out what could happen in that case, aren’t you?” The grip moved and pinched his cheek, just as hard as it had his jaw.

“Yes, sir.”

The grip relented, melted into a caress. A pity Veers had taken his gloves off. His hands had a rough, corn-ridden skin that bespoke physical toil and blaster triggers.

“Now, where did we leave off?”

Piett tapped a finger on his midriff. “Here, I think.”

“Very well.” Veers shifted, bent his head and, whereas Piett gripped the blanket bracing himself for a bite, he kissed gently, just brushing the skin with his lips.

“Oh, don’t play it tender now…” Piett bit his own tongue as he felt fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers and pull them down to his knees, then to his ankles when he flexed his legs, and off they flew.

“General, are you—” Yes, he definitely _was_. Palm cupping his bollocks, thumb stroking the base of his todger. Then a hail of quick, light kisses across his inner thighs, on the tip of the rod and round and round again, and his muscles were so taut and thick with hot blood that each of those tickling touches made him arch his back. “Damn you—I love you.”

Veers looked up, wiped the sheen of sweat off his brow and grinned. No lopsided drunken smile, but the bare fangs of a hungry predator. It smoothed a dozen years and just as many battlefields off his face. “Now who’s playing it tender?”

Piett grabbed a fistful of Veers’ hair and held him down wedged between his legs. Now that the daft ground-thumper had what he must do literally shoved in his face, he nuzzled about for a moment and then— _stars, high bloody time_ —ran his tongue along Piett’s todger and took the tip in his mouth. _Deeper, damn you_. Piett steeled his trembling hands to pull Veers’ head closer, but an instant later he felt a pecking of teeth and froze.

That grin again met his wide-eyed dread. Veers pulled himself up on his knees and began undoing the front of his trousers. “And you call that a boner?”

“If—” Piett cleared his throat. “If you hope I’m going to be in shock and awe the moment you take off your pants…” He trailed off, giving Veers the time to roll the garments down his legs. He surveyed the heavy artillery with a raised eyebrow, and smirked. “…you’re delusional.”

“You couldn’t be redder in your ugly mug if I punched you, you know?” He leaned over and caught Piett’s chin. “You forget yourself, sailor. I haven’t let you into my territory so that you could try getting bossy with me.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, _General_.” The high-pitched, whimpering sound of his own voice made him shut his eyes in shame for an instant, but he forced himself to look Veers square in the face. “If I know one thing about you, it’s that you wouldn’t go sucking navy men off if you didn’t enjoy it.” Much to his grim satisfaction, he observed a remarkable deepening of the blush colour on Veers’ cheeks. The general wetted his lips and averted his stare, a bit of aimless glancing to his left and right.

Time to be daring and counterattack. Piett took Veers’ hand and guided it down to his stiff abdomen and, finally, the raw, throbbing flesh. “Hate to rush you, but, if you don’t mind—”

He humphed as Veers grabbed his legs and pushed them backwards. “Wait!” The damn dirt-headed brute thrust himself in—or at least tried very hard, and the pain blotted out every other sensation. Piett screamed and pulled away, and banged his head on the wall.

“Shit, what was that for?”

Panting and massaging his head, Piett dragged himself to sit. “No clue at all, you toss-pot? That bloody hurt!”

Veers blinked.

“You just… don’t go in dry like that. I’m not a woman, for stars’ sake!”

Had each component of his afterburners not been on fire and a sickening fermented taste of grog were not siphoning back up his throat, he would have been greatly amused at Veers’ awkward, boyish look of dawning realisation.

“I’m sorry,” said Veers. “But how the hell am I supposed to…?”

Piett gestured towards the ‘fresher. “Use the hand soap. Rub it all over and bring some for me.”

“ _Soap_.”

“Trust me, it’s been tried and tested. The stuff’s slick and made to be anti-irritant.”

“All right, all right, spare me the details!” Veers struggled to pull his trousers up and limped to the ‘fresher, stumbling on his boots in the process.

It was awful cold now, being drenched in sweat and aching and in an empty bed. Piett hugged himself. _Bad idea, Firmus. Bad idea_. Ever since the second glass. The first had been only a toast, a purely innocent, entirely legitimate toast between fellow officers and brothers-in-arms. Then the grog had let float to the surface of his mind certain filthy minutes, in the darkest night cycles, when he’d fantasized about the general, face-down on the pillow to muffle whatever noise might escape him and wake his bunkmates. There’s only so much arguing you can do against a dream that sits next to you and comes true by buying you drinks.

Speaking of dreams, he’d been a young and eager cadet once, who wanted to see the galaxy and shoot at Separatists. As far as he could remember, that lad had never been gormless: you either weasel your way up to the top of the food chain, or the navy finds best use for you as prison barge crewman if you’re lucky. Well, here he was, top of the food chain. So damn scared and cold.

“This is so embarrassing.” Veers limped stark naked out of the ‘fresher, smeared with the translucent soap gel and carrying a handful of it in his cupped palms.

“Don’t think about it. Come here.” Piett rolled over to lie down on his belly. “Do I need to get any more explanatory than this?”

No answer was spoken. The bed creaked softly under Veers’ added weight. He gripped the pillow when the creamy soap and the rough-skinned hand circled in the cleft of his arse; a tentative finger poked into him.

“Does it hurt?” Veers breathed very close to his ear.

Piett looked over his shoulder and planted a kiss on the tip of Veers’ nose. “You may commence boarding,” he said in a passable approximation of his own clipped command bridge voice. Strong hands gripped his hips and lifted his lower body off the mattress a few centimetres; this time, the ground-pounder slid in with a minimal, bearable jolt of pain. And also with a noise that started with _bloody hell_ and ended in a raucous sob.

_What, over so soon?_

But then fingers raked his spine, all the way up to the nape of his neck, they tousled his hair and squeezed his shoulders. The lunges began, deep and at first slow, growing faster at every two thrusts—was it some army parade step? Piett buried his sweltering face into the pillow. Shit, what was he even thinking? It made it easy to push back, though, in time with the forward thrusts.

The hands on his shoulders moved again, nails scratching along; they went round his ribcage and entwined over his crotch. The touch sent up him a shiver that made him almost cry.

Veers draped himself over his back. A heavy breath blew through his hair, “Tell me that cute claptrap again, Firmus.”

“I love you.”

“Tell me you surrender.”

“An admiral dies but doesn’t—” The squeeze was strong this time, too strong, and with it came a bite on his neck, and next thing he knew, he was screaming and shuddering so hard in release it could’ve been an electrical shock or malfunctioning gravity ripping his body apart.

He sagged under the sweat-sticky weight of the man on top of him, who clasped his arms around his chest and gave two final pushes, drawn-out and sighing. Then Veers sank to lie down still, breathing in pained gasps. The sight made Piett grin, despite the sting of the bite marks; so high and mighty, would the general have broken down weeping had their roles of attacker and defender been reversed?

Bit by bit, his huffing and puffing grew fainter, the wetness between Piett’s legs cooler and stiffer.

“I didn’t ask the Rebels so nicely, you know?” said Veers in a sleepy purr.

“You didn’t _ask_ them at all.” Before he—indeed, both of them—drifted off to sleep, Piett placed a hand on Veers’ hip, careful not to touch the bandage, and pinched gently the gooseflesh-ridden skin. “Would you please get out of my arse? I doubt I’m strong enough to shove you off.”

“Right. Sorry.” Veers disengaged himself in one swift movement and sank on the mattress to face Piett. His eyes were shut but for a slit of brown, and the corners of his mouth were quirked up in a pleased smile. “Will you call for another strike anytime soon, Admiral?”

“Stars, no. I’m not a tireless youngster anymore.”

Veers grunted in assent. “Lights out,” he called; the voice-activated switch responded with a click, and the room plummeted into darkness. A warm, sturdy arm enfolded Piett and pulled him in, his ear right over the dull pulse of Veers’ heart. He almost regretted not having called for another strike. Almost.

“Goodnight, General.”

There was no reply but his faint, regular breathing, laden with the sharp tang of grog.


	3. The Lash

Veers awoke into a universe of soreness. The day cycle lights kept the room into a blur; the wound on his side throbbed, though not as bad as the inside of his skull; his throat was parched to a crisp; his abs ached as if he’d been doing heavy work-out; last but not least, his bollocks itched.

He crawled up to sit on the bed—it was the bed, _his_ bed, wasn’t it? He felt around and touched a crumpled, damp blanket, that left a clammy sensation on his fingers. Damn the fucking stars, he was hungover. Very hungover. Absent-mindedly he went to scratch his groin, and the thin film of dried soap he felt there snapped him fully awake, eyes open to the stained disaster that was the blanket—why, why couldn’t the fleet supply bastards issue bedding sets in white instead of dark grey?

Mindful not to touch the stuff, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and winced at the cold durasteel floor under his bare feet. Elbows propped on his knees, breath forcefully even, he stared down and tried to piece himself back together. He’d been drinking hard. Not sure what. Had had the wet dream to end all wet dreams. He shook his head to push away the shreds of memories before they came into focus.

His comlink beeped.

Of fucking course. It must be bloody late anyway… But why did the sound come from the ‘fresher?

The beeping stopped. “Piett,” said a voice beyond the door.

Veers sprang to his feet and staggered to crash upon the frame of the ‘fresher door, which opened to reveal an immaculately dressed admiral running a comb through his hair and dictating orders into a comlink, “…and relocate interceptor squadrons from one-hundred to one-hundred-twenty to hangar N-15—”

“What in the nine hells are you—”

Piett made a start, dropped the comb into the sink and shot Veers a broadside’s worth of a glower, making a scissor gesture over his mouth.

“Sorry, sir?” said whoever was at the other end of the comm.

“Nothing, Lieutenant. I’m on my way.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Also, get me a cup of caf while you’re at it. Two shots, the usual.”

“The droid in Galley F-68 reported you left out a cup of tea last night, sir. Shall I send someone to retrieve it?”

On the verge of a bout of nervous laughter and clinging onto the wall, Veers had no idea how the admiral could keep a straight, serious face throughout that last exchange. But Piett did. “No, it doesn't matter. Over and out.” He switched the comlink off and let out a sigh. “I hope you won’t mind that I borrowed your razor. And some of your aspirins.” He nodded at the line-up of items on the sink: the razor, an empty plastic glass, and a tube of pills.

“I think the comb is also mine?” Veers had never prided himself on his oratory skills, but this was a low point even for him.

With neither a word nor a blink, Piett picked the comb out of the sink and put it next to the razor, nudging it a few millimetres so that the alignment was perfect. “Excuse me.” He squeezed through between Veers and the door jamb, picked up his hat from the shelf, and strutted towards the cabin door.

“Wait!”

He halted, but didn’t turn. “Don’t worry, General, I’ve taken care of everything. No one will come to know I’ve been here.”

“What do you mean, taken care of everything?”

Piett pointed a finger to the ceiling. “Surveillance feeds and the like, you know? Nothing that a stern word to the techs and a bit of souping up couldn’t solve.”

“There are no hidden cameras in this cabin! This is a CO’s billet, it’s against the rules…”

Piett turned three quarters, folding his arms. “Pray tell, how many more things about my ship you aren’t aware of?”

“Holy mother of moons.” Veers brushed strands of soggy hair off his forehead. “Does it mean they saw everything?”

“I took the liberty to comm Colonel Covell, while you were asleep; I told him that, considering your wound, you would be exempted from this morning’s briefing. So take your time brushing up and having breakfast, you who can.”

“Why did you do that?”

Piett shrugged. “You _may_ want to avoid feeding the rumour mill. I’m trusting in your discretion as much as you are going to trust in mine, General.”

“Not _that_ , you little—I mean, why did you… go after me?”

Piett tilted his head. It was damn easy to mask hesitation when one was wearing a uniform and talking to someone who wasn’t wearing anything at all, thought Veers grimly.

“Well, because I fancied you.”

“Oh.”

“And we were both plastered. I really need to go now, Max—General.” He gave him a salute, but Veers just frowned.

“Is that how you call me when you’re wanking?”

The flinch this time was too sudden for Piett to hold it back; fear washed over his face, and although he recovered his poise in a split second, his mouth was shut a bit too tightly to seem natural.

“First name basis, then? I’ll keep that in mind.” Veers ambled over to fill the distance between them.

“For what?” Piett kept a steady eye contact, but a slight blush betrayed how much he must be wishing to look elsewhere, and his clenched fists how much he must be itching to touch something else.

“Do us both a favour and don’t play daft, Firmus.” Veers ran his knuckles over Piett’s clean-shaven cheek. He felt on his skin the other man’s forcedly quiet breath quicken. “Did I do these?” He thumbed the cuts on Piett’s lips, the red crusts dulled by the pale shade of instant-cicatrising cream—just how deep had Piett been rummaging in his meds drawer?

“Yes. And it was nothing I didn’t want you to do.”

Veers’ soldier brain reacted to the core of steel in the admiral’s tone, and made him retreat the hand.

“Remember this one thing, Max: I _am_ in command now. This whole fair lady,” Piett gestured airily to encompass the _Executor_ ’s nineteen kilometres of flying death, “is my territory, and within it I possess every right to be as bossy as I please. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Admiral.” Three things then occurred to Veers: one, he’d heard those words before, not sure where or when; two, _more like, as bossy as the big man in black lets you, short-round_ ; three, he was standing on attention.

Piett stepped past him, and on his way, without a look back, he landed a lightning-fast slap on Veers’ arse.

“Hutt’s balls—!”

The door opened, then closed behind Piett.

Continuing the string of cusses aloud, and the wet not-quite-dream in his mind, Veers snatched a change of underwear and stomped to the ‘fresher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real-world references shamelessly nabbed from:
> 
> a.) someone who said that naval traditions are "nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash", and who wasn't actually Winston Churchill;  
> b.) that terribad drinking song that is "Good Ship Venus"/"Friggin' in the Riggin'".


End file.
